


Nervous Veins

by nightmarefever



Series: Musical Chairs [1]
Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Bloodplay, Gender-neutral Reader, It's kinda minor but its there, It's more like, Other, Reader-Insert, bruiseplay lmao, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmarefever/pseuds/nightmarefever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mishap in a music video leaves 2D worse for wear, worse enough he falls back on you to crash with until worse becomes slightly better. Fortunately for you, there appears to be a lot more to the incident than what he’s telling you. (Post Phase 3 but not quite Phase 4)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nervous Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on tumblr but that's kinda just an excuse I might have wanted to write a Gorillaz fic anyways. The tags make it sound grosser than it is because I couldn't bring myself to make it the disgusting vibe I wanted. Enjoy it nonetheless tho! (Reuploaded because the original story was glitching in and out??)

You only own one Gorillaz album. 

Physically, at least. As with all things of the digital age, going out and actually buying things lost its charm when you could just open up a window and instantly buy and consume your favorite songs. Putting a CD into a player and waiting for it to start up was a pain. Moving songs into your music program of choice was a pain. Having to find the closest music store near you to buy this single album had been a pain.

But 2D was very adamant about you buying it. In the brief moment you had communicated during his ‘disappearance.’ (He specifically called it a kidnapping and you weren’t going to argue against it. You’d known 2D long enough to know he didn’t lie about those things. And you’d known his bandmates long enough to know this was well within the possibilities of things to happen.)

 _The Fall._ Evidently he made it, all him! All on his own time and through his own devices! His texts sounded very excited, certainly very proud. He said he was proud but knew, frankly, it was probably all rubbish. 

_**please buy it because no one else probably will.** _

And you weren’t going to be the one that ignored the man’s (possibly final) request. 

Which you knew was also rubbish. He was the lead singer in a band _._ A _well-known_  band. Everyone was going to buy his album whether it was just the sounds of toilets flushing for an hour or screeching fingernails on a chalkboard. And lo-and-behold, it was sold out in damn near every place you looked. 

Finding it was a hassle but somehow you did. At some less-than-local niche store, you bought it for probably too much. Went home and looked it over. Listened to it a few dozen times like you usually did. Repeated for a while because it was not rubbish. 

Maybe that was the friend bias speaking though. Fan bias? Groupie bias? The fact he was so… _about_  it certainly added to its charm. 

You enjoyed it for what it was: a weird diary of sorts.

An artifact of a quieter time. Not that things were any less quiet now. If anything, things were more silent than ever. Given how the entire band was just…gone. You didn’t even have contact with them, save for when a newspaper landed in your mailbox with blurry images that _looked_  sort’ve like a band member at a supermarket and other times like a really nice cosplayer enjoying themselves. 

The images in the papers were getting more frequent though.

Often times they were 2D and you were  _very_  sure they were the blue light out and about. He wasn’t bright enough to hide himself really. Occasionally he’d be dressed up, like a half-assed attempt to try and cover up as if someone had yelled at him for not doing it before. Occasionally he’d even be smiling at the camera. 

Occasionally you’d see him in person. 

You are seeing him. 2D sits on your kitchen counter, hunched over because he’s too tall to fit comfortable under your cabinets. You told him to sit in a chair, maybe even sit in the bathroom because he’s bleeding all over the admittedly disgusting tiles on the floor. You’d rather that be in the bathroom. On your table. On the front porch. 

The blood drips from his nose, splatters on the floor and goes everywhere. There’s some on your shirt when you try and clean it because it  _drips_  and hits you. Ruins  _your_ clothing. 

You’re both rambling, not really responding to each other. You about his state and what even happened both to him and where he’s been. Him about what happened (in immensely vague terms) and about  _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

"I’m getting a bit sick of it, frankly. Sorry to show up like this. But I’m getting a bit sick of this." He mumbles it like he’s thinking out loud. 

He looks not too different from the last time you saw him, which is a bit reassuring. Just a bloody nose, maybe some stubble that looks poorly shaved. Hair still very messy. Clothes a bit baggier. 

The first time it happens, it ends at that. A few apologizes, an ice pack, and him waving you off without actually helping you catch up. He says he needs to go  _immediately_ , so you just wave back and hope you’ll get a better story later. 

The next time it happens, its the same thing. However, this time he tells you a few things. Whales and beaches and cyborgs and thanking you and asking if you have the album he wanted you to buy. 

2D gives a very delighted smile when you say you have it but doesn’t ask any further things. He says he’s glad someone bought it, even though he  _must_  be aware you’re not the only person in the world that bought it. Maybe the only person in this neighborhood, but that’s pushing it. 

The next few times, he tends to stay over for the night. Or for a while. Being gone during the day and coming back to your place. Sometimes with things he puts on your couch, sometimes with things you need to take care of. 

He listens to the album and is, again, very happy you have it. Even if his eye is having trouble opening, even if he may be on the verge of losing some more teeth. 

You give him the key to your door because he shows up so frequently. He takes it reluctantly. “Someone might take this and then who knows who’d be in here? Not me!” Reluctantly but he  _does_  take it. 

A few times you wake up at equally as ungodly hours and find him crashed on your couch when he hadn’t been there earlier, usually not so badly bruised. Recovering from incidents he tells you are from filming. Whatever new music Gorillaz is producing certainly is doing a number on him. You hope the videos are worth it, even if it might just be him being clumsy as usual. 

As long as he has a place to feel safe and comfortable, you’re fine with it all. Not…so much the fact he’s getting hurt in the first place. He doesn’t complain anymore, so maybe he’s fine with it. Just apologizes every time. 

The stream of sorrys would be annoying if you didn’t enjoy the company. You’re not the most sociable of people. Hardly any friends, hardly any people you’re willing to interact with. Meeting 2D was a happy accident, a mishap on a tour that you’re, frankly, delighted over. His silence for the last few years makes the time spent together, even if he’s bleeding and emptying pill bottles, coughing and sleeping, time well spent. 

Waking up with long limbs around your waist? Also a good time. 

2D in your bed one night instead of on the makeshift room he’s set up in your living room—pillows, blankets, binders of horror movies, far too many charging chords for his iPad. You give a twitch of surprise when your alarm goes off and find him. 

The twitch wakes the man up. He gives a yawn in your ear, offers yet another apology and gets out immediately. “The….the player’s in your room, you know? The player’s in here and I wanted to listen to it. So I came in here…Sorry.”

An awkward silence where he’s rubbing his hands covered in Hello Kitty and Spongebob Band-Aids. An awkward silence where you stare at his black hole eyes, one of which isn’t so swelled up from whatever hit it during filming days ago. You can’t read his emotions so well with them. Eyebrows tilted down, bustled into some sort of embarrassed stance, but you can only assume. 

"I’ll just be heading back—sorry again."

You’re still staring at him as he moves around the bed, heading to the door with an almost…reluctant wave to his motions. It’s very obvious, the only thing more obvious would be if he was looking over his shoulder at you. 

Basically, you get the hint. 

He halts as you grab the back of his worn-out shirt, something old that you  _know_  used to be less baggy on him. Somehow he keeps getting skinnier but now’s not really the time to be asking about it. 

"You are  _way_  too cold to be sleeping out there.”

"…Oh. Oh no! I’m fine." He gives a forced smile. 

"No, you’re not. Come on," you try again, tugging at his shirt. He’s like a leaf on a branch—starting to fall backwards at your rough pull. Legs as long as those toss back and keep him up, but much closer to you. 

"I have practice soon. You should go back to sleep!"

"2D."

"Honestly—"

” _Stuart._ ”

"H-Hey. Hey don’t. Don’t call me—" 

And you finally roll your eyes, giving another hard tug. He’s very much not fighting it this time, falling firmly on his butt on the bed. Nearly falls on his back. You’re not sure if that’s because he’s so feeble or because he’s faking how hard he doesn’t want to be back in bed. “I’m asking you to.”

2D scratches his head, looking at the door. “Are you really?”

"Of course."

Another scratch. And another look, this time at you. “…Alright then.” The man returns to your side with a smile you know he’s meaning to hide but still shines nonetheless. One that remains as he tucks back into his spot, arms rested against his chest but you know they’ll be back later.

When you wake up later, they are. When you wake up following nights, they are. Head starting to tuck into your neck. It never starts when you’re awake. So you’re never sure if it’s him actively or subconsciously being an affectionate sleeper. You won’t complain either way. So you don’t bring it up. 

He moves closer as the nights continue. Close enough you elbow him in a bruise during a sudden wake up, caused by your alarm yet again. You have no idea why you set it, given you just go back to sleep with nowhere to actually be. 

It’s happened before, elbowing and touching and making bruises far worse than they need to be. All accidents! Of course! And you always make sure he’s fine! But you hold your tongue this time. 

A soft sound is in your ear, 2D’s mouth practically on it as expected from the cuddler. A sound that sounds almost like…a moan? Definitely no sound of pain. Something almost encouraging. Encouraging…ha. Like you should elbow him again.

You give a moment to stare at your clock before looking back at him. And he’s asleep.

No…he’s not. A very forced snoring and tightly closed eyes give him away. You consider ‘waking him up’, asking if he’s ok. Making things possibly nerve-wrecking. The consideration goes away. The alarm goes off with a click of your finger, your body going back into a rest.

Your eyes stare forward, trying not to think too much but you can’t force down the thoughts. Your curiosity is overwhelming. That’s all you are anymore, curiosity. Curious about disappearances and music videos, bad health and bruises and just what happens if you just…reach back…and press your hand against the same bruise—

2D tightens his arms around you and gives a small, startled squeak. You blush, he blushes, you both freeze up, you staring at the clock with a terrified expression. 

"S-sorry was that you?" You feign innocence finally, jerking your hand away.

"Yeah—was that  _you_?” And he sounds panicked. Panicked in a quiet tone. “I mean—of course it was you. Unless… Do…Do you have ghosts?”

"No?"

"Are you sure?"

"P-Positive."

He falls into a quiet that you don’t feel like breaking. There’s not really anything else to say besides apologizing. There’s been too much apologizing by this point, though. And it’d just bring up more. Like you asking if that had been a moan. You’re positive you’ll spill the question out and then 2D will stumble out something because he doesn’t want to be rude and admit you’re creeping him up a wall asking such a thing and then he won’t spend a single night in your cramped bed, maybe not even the couch. 

He doesn’t break the quiet either. Chin digs back into the crook of your shoulder. His arms loosen up, not digging sharp, bony features into your stomach. It’s a comfortable position again, but without the feeling of comfort. Because your cheeks are still lit up bright and curiosity is still there. 

But given 2D doesn’t mention anything, you’re pushing it all back down. 

Later, when you’re eating breakfast and he’s gone off to another rehearsal, you chew awkwardly and swallow harshly. You came to a realization that you’re choosing to stay with. 

That was definitely a moan. 

The next time 2D is sitting on your toilet, shirtless, finally taking the time to bleed on your bathroom floor instead of your kitchen, you remember your realization. He’s telling some funny story about what happened. What left him with cuts on his side, only lessened by the still healing  _huge_  bruise nearly on it. You’re half listening because you’re tending to him but hands are moving slowly. Not pushing, just gently cleaning. 

He could do this at home.

He chooses to come over here and spend nights and you remember him “being tired of all of this, you know?” but it’s still…weird. Weird he comes to the friend he hardly needs to know any longer. He has his other band mates, the nice ones. They could tend to him. They could be helping far more than him walking out to your place holding his side.

You close the train of thought. His story sounds almost over, hearing chuckling, almost forced. 

The small towel stained with red dips against a cut, your finger inside of it pushing. It’s both an accident and a purposeful slip. 

2D’s frame shakes. The fluster comes to your face and you jerk your head up. His fist is against his mouth and you’re…not sure if he’s looking at you or the wall. Whatever meets his gaze causes him to cough. 

He doesn’t say anything so neither do you. There isn’t anything to even say. Drawing attention to anything would make you feel worse or nervous or revolting or less brave. Is it brave to be doing this, tracing your finger along the torn edges of the thin line? Colored by reds, yellows, blues, purples? 

It’s probably unsanitary as  _hell_. That’s what it is.

Unsanitary and making the man’s chest very slowly rise and fall. Beneath the towel, your nails drags from the start to finish of the cut, one of many that shouldn’t be treated so roughly. 

You’re still unsure if he’s watching you. You hope he isn’t. 

Your thumb digs into the colors marking his pale skin and,with the bend of his knees in and the way he finally looks away to stare at the tiles in the shower, you take it as final confirmation that you’re right. You had been right. That had been a moan. 

And you think you hear another, muffled, one as you push your whole hand into the injuries aligning his side. 

Taking it a step further, the hand not paining him rubs against his thigh, tilting to the inner seems of his jeans and—

"I’d rather—" 2D starts, grabbing your wrist with a  _very_  tight grip. “Really rather not do that here.”

For a moment, you have trouble responding. It’s fine, given how slow conversation with the two of you can be anyways. But especially when you’re knelt besides him, hands in compromising places. When you find your words, you kinda laugh them out, as if this is just a funny little joke. “Yeah. Probably rather not be doing this at  _all.”_

You’d jerk your hands away if he wasn’t holding one of them. Less tight as the moment goes on but you don’t want to move in. The fabric of the torn-up, wrinkled clothing feels right against your palm.

"I mean." His grip loosens more. You don’t realize you are staring at it until it moves upwards to scratch his chest. "I said…here."

"Here."

"In a bathroom. On a toilet."

"On a…" You stare at each other. Another realization hits you. The smiles that pops up from it is accidental, more surprised than anything. But he nonetheless returns it with one of his own. A dorky look unbefitting of the situation. 

You feel the bit of blood soaking through your towel and laugh nervously. “Well…this is really messy.”

”..Oh.” He smiles more, the scratching hand moving to his hair. “…You have that towel though, don’t you? You could. Could use it? Like you are?”

"To keep doing what I’m doing?"

"If that’s alright with you?"

"So…you like this, eh?" Your eyebrow pops up, hoping the look on your face isn’t too teasing. Or rude. Teasingly rude perhaps? It’s kind’ve a funny situation but there’s no need to make him worse than he must be. 

2D blushes beneath a palm on his cheek. Again, where his eyes are looking is beyond you. Time spent in the position makes you anxious, like you definitely should not have done anything. But then he cracks a meek laugh. “Yeah. I guess I do. Is that weird?”

He fully turns his head to you, making it unmistakable of his focus. You stumble out a “A bit… Not weirder than me instigating this.”

"Oh no I think I instigated it!"

"No I’m sure it was me." You hop to your feet, ankles aching from being knelt over so long. For once in your life, you get to be above 2D. If hardly. Even sitting down his frame towers, though most of it falling in legs that could reach the other side of the room if he stretched them out more. 

You notice the bloody cloth in your hands, the damned source of this embarrassment. That and blasted curiosity. Always with the curiosity…. And then 2D’s standing up and putting you right back beneath him, hand holding his no doubt aching side. 

You want to ask if that feels nice too. But you decide against it. 

Given he’d suggested other places— “I’d just. Just rather be comfortable. No matter what happens. You know, I’m not like Murdoc up against a wall or our tour van, which. Which was immensely distressing to bump into but I’d rather not do that, right?” — you could only make so many assumptions on where else. Given how quickly he was heading to the bedroom once you both stepped from the bathroom, you couldn’t even make assumptions.

It’s hardly any time, in fact, before 2D has made the pillows comfortable against the bed frame, tucking into them and looking a bit too eager for you to hop in front of him. As you do, he offers another apology. Always with the apologies; “S-Sorry if. If I dirty up your bed.”

"It’s fine," you reassure him, hands pushing his knees apart. "I need new ones. These ones? Too old. Older than you."

"I’m not that old. Not. Not like Murdoc."

"Right, definitely not like Murdoc."

Enjoying bruises being pushed, cuts being scraped did feel more like a trait of that Satanic pickle though. But no need to push it. You would rather not bring him up during this. 

Everyone is comfortable, you’re comfortable, 2D is comfortable. For now. But that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s relishing in the discomfort. 

Fingers wiggle anxiously, not sure where to pick up. You left at his thigh, at his side, at hands being very awful. You wrap the towel firmly around your fingers. Starting with them seems best, given it’s what seems to do the most damage. 

And, scaring you honestly, 2D reacts very in tune. He tilts back against the pillows with the scrap of the now widening cut, which should scare you more. But you’re ignoring that very natural feeling of worry. He’ll be fine. He’ll say something if you go too far. Rubbing back against the bruises brings a side that resembles the one from the other night. 

It also brings a strange chuckle. 

"Lucky my neighbors aren’t home, huh?"

He chuckles again. “I guess so—Sorry. Sorry—”

"No, that’s alright." You pinch the cut, eliciting another sound that catches on his teeth, digging into his lip. "I don’t mind the lead singer of Gorillaz moaning in my bedroom."

Releasing his lip, 2D gives a weak smile. “That. That sounds terrible,” he says a bit breathlessly. “That would be in the papers.”

"It would." Finger runs along the cold line of skin above the blue jeans. Brushing against hair oddly as blue as his hair. You guess it really is natural. "That’d be the headline." And stops at the button of his fly, popping it open after a moment of hesitation. To make sure the man is honestly for this. " ‘Singer 2D, Stuart Pot, found in a compromising situation in local flat.’" 

He exhales slowly with the pull of the zipper. “This is. Is certainly compromising of a situation.”

"You’re telling me."

He still isn’t backing down. Which a part of you wants him to do. To say he’s not feeling this but with your nail now  _digging_ into another cut, one on his stomach that you still don’t know how he could’ve gotten, and him not doing anything more than smiling greatly, you can’t hope for backing down. 

You don’t want to back down. This is fun, oddly nice. Almost powerful. Certainly nice to help him like this. Certainly nice to  _hear_. He doesn’t like to make much noise during conversation. A quiet man who is still processing what you said as you move onto a different topic. Not very quiet beneath your exploring digits, in cut and bruises and against pattern printed boxers.

That makes the biggest noise. 

Blank black eyes close and you notice his hand going into a fist. Tightening as you go about your motions; palming against him, continuing to gush blood from the cuts on his skin. The edges of the lines bruise as you go on, adding to the dots of blue you already snatch into your fingertips. 

Nothing hits your bed sheets yet. You’re happy to see that.

A happy purr, a purr was that a purr, touches your ear as you brush forward, lips touching experimentally to 2D’s neck. You’re immensely happy to see he’s not freaked out by that. Kissing his neck doesn’t get you shoved to the floor. It only draws deep inhale-exs, with the kisses and palm dragging beneath the flap of underwear. A sound like a giggle goes off.

It’s adorable. Utterly  _adorable._

Yet he seems to outdo himself even with the sounds; a hand snakes behind you, grasping your butt unashamedly. It brings you closer to the singer. Pulling from his neck and you almost regret it — your noses brush the moment you look up. A parted mouth in your face and you very nearly push it into yours right there and then. 

He speaks first, so you listen instead. “Do you….do you need any. Any help? Yourself?” he mumbles, maybe because he’s embarrassed (embarrassed to offer that to you???) or maybe because he’s literally _right there_. Both too close for comfort and not close enough. Close enough you watch his lip dip into the dark gap in his missing front teeth as your own hand isn’t just coaxing him out, you’re tugging him out. 

His hand squeezes in reaction. 

"I’m, er, fine. For now, I’m fine," you mumble back. The thought of what he’s offering seems rather…exciting, you won’t lie. But maybe a bit too risky for your tastes, at least right now. Maybe later when you are better prepared than just deciding, out of the blue, to start fingering an open wound. 

2D nods. He understands very clearly, hopefully. Maybe? Honestly, you don’t care. He won’t push the issue, even if he feels guilty getting all the attention. You enjoy giving it, seeing his eyes close again with your foreheads now together, hand scraping the cuts and bruises, and fingers wrapping around a muscle that certainly doesn’t need to be awakened any longer. 

A knee comes to your side, pulled up and digging into you. His lanky legs are giving him away the most that way. Curving around you, buckling against each motion of your hand. Hand because you’re still trying to focus on the original intention of making the injuries ache but it’s hard. You’re focusing more on the stiffness sliding against your palm, 2D sliding as well beneath you, literally beneath you as the pillows aren’t propped up behind his back as much as propped up behind his head. You don’t notice it until you’re still in his face but looking down at him rather than forward. 

The hand on your backside slides higher, holding the back of your shirt. It tugs it up with each pull he gives to match each stroke, cold fingertips pressing against you and sending delightful shivers crawling. 

Cold fingertips and hot breathing on your face. Eyes crack back open, the bruising surrounding their sunken glistens looking so lovely in the shadow of his face. 

You half-expect him to ask before he does it, push your lips together. And you half-expect another stuttered apology for him not asking to do it. Maybe he wants to give one, maybe, but you don’t give the chance for one. Briefly you pull apart and then come back, fingers on bruises pressing flat and hard. His stomach jolts beneath your touch. 

Two hands are on your back, knees very much pressed against your sides now. You’re practically held in place above the singer.

Not that you’d want to move.

Your face is hot from the proximity and heat blowing into it, heat coursing through your body from the general chill his gives off. Oddly enough. Ears right there to hear him when you aren’t kissing, even when you are. Like a personal performance just for you of a personal album just for you. Track One: The 2D You Weren’t Expecting To Hear This Afternoon. 

Track Two: But You Are Delighted Nonetheless. 

Track Three is louder, 2D’s head tossing backwards with smashed shut eyes. You’re briefly worried—your nails are caked in blood because the towels slipped. The towel’s slipped and you’re not really caring about silly things like infection or sanitation, just digging into cuts and bruises willy-nilly. 

Worriment leaves as he resurfaces, foreheads back to pressing but lips not coming together quite yet. You realize what’s happening slowly. His eyes are voids, black holes that suck up emotion and spit out confusion. But you can tell he’s looking past you. 

Watching one of your hands, maybe both of them. Fingers sliding over bruised outlines of ribs and others tight and grasping, working him off in a hold that you hope isn’t too fast, isn’t too slow. Good enough, it’s gotta be. Hips have been jerking against both motions the entire time. Especially now though, back arching with them.

His fingers are knotting in your hair, which has to be a good sign. Both sets of frankly huge hands on the side of your head. Gently even when he’s so jerky and breathing so shakily. Finally kissing you again with a far more sloppy touch to his lips. Still somehow gentle. He’s so gentle.

A gentle giant. Rocking beneath you, singing an off course melody against your mouth, hands sliding back down your spine. 

Kisses end again but you’re not too worried this time, noticing the way he moves. 2D’s face tucks into his shoulder, eyebrows bustling up tight on dark red skin. His fingers yank the back of your shirt, hips giving their final jolts. 

It’s oddly more embarrassing for you than him. The final motions as you slow down and he seems to crash. Smile on his face, lips tightly bit but hardly muffling the delighted moan. Slipping out of your clenched fingers as he finishes. So there’s a mess in both your hands, one not so terrible as the other. 

Thankfully most of its just a puddle of red and white on his stomach. Only a few spots drip onto your bed, from either color. Thankfully it’s such a dark bed cover. Thankfully it’s from someone who mumbles a sorry when he’s coming back into reality.

"I told you. I can replace it," you mutter, smiling meekly. As if to prove your point, you wipe off what can be wiped off onto them. You honestly don’t care as much as you did before. If you ever cared.

2D sits up at that, making you move up with him. It’s a slow process, the man gripping his side as he goes. Yeah…yeah that’s going to hurt. It’s going to sting it must be stinging. And you feel both guilty and satisfied with that thought. It must be a sting he’ll enjoy. 

"If you say so." The singer rubs his face and it’s scary for a moment. Not seeing his expression because you’re very delighted, certainly. You weren’t expecting to be here, doing such things with him….ever really. Yet you were—had. So reassurance everything’s alright feels only natural. You really don’t need to be scaring off the only person you really interact with anymore, the man that’s been sleeping at your house for God knows how long. 

But he moves his hands, holding red cheeks that frame a big grin. 

You grin back instinctively. Is that…good? 

"Everything  _really_  hurts,” he laughs. “A lot. You did a number on me.” 

You give a relieved sigh. 

"But also it feels bloody  _amazing_? Weird. Brilliant. Weirdly brilliant.” He pats his cheeks and shrugs childishly. Continuing to grin. “Thank you. Do. Do I thank you? I haven’t done this in a while, frankly.”

"If you want to?" you answer. "You’re welcome if so. Thank you for, er, not. Bolting out of my room."

"Oh no no no no. I’d never bolt! Never bolt. If I bolted, this wouldn’t have happened and I think I very much liked this. A lot actually. Thank you again. Thanks." Another pat of his cheeks and he leans forward, peaking your lips with his. "And my offer still stands….er. Another time."

You both say of course at the same time and laugh. “I’ll be ready next time.”

"And I will. Hopefully not be patterned with a friend’s gashes."

You wrinkle your nose. “Friend? This wasn’t from M—”

A finger comes to your face. “Sh sh sh sh sh. Ssssh don’t even think about it. Because I’m fine. I am fine and this was very wonderful.” 2D gives a final smile at you. “And it will be wonderful next time, right? Yes, there can be a next time?”

You don’t even have to think it over, just smiling against the finger pressed against your lips. “Of course, you big idiot.”

And it only brightens his brilliant face more. 


End file.
